“… mighty highhanded way of doing things,” Detective Morgan was saying. “I tell you this woman is an important witness in a murder investigation.”
“And I’m her physician,” Doctor Meeker replied crisply. “I don’t care if Saint Peter wants to interview her. She’s my patient, and as long as she’s alive I won’t have her disturbed. This injection is necessary, and I intend to administer it.”
“I’m warning you, Doctor, that you’re liable to prosecution.”
Shayne stepped into a bedroom with shades lowered. He said provocatively, “Don’t pay any attention to Morgan, Doctor. When I get around to it I’m going to prosecute him for digging into my private office files.”
Morgan whirled around and faced Shayne with a hostile gaze, but the doctor remained in his bent position, holding Betty Jackson’s arm in one hand and a hypodermic needle in the other.
Inserting the needle deftly he said, “I don’t know who you are, but I have no intention of endangering my patient’s life just to please some oaf of a policeman.”
“What are you doing here, Shayne?” Morgan demanded. “Didn’t Sergeant Allen tell you-”
“That I wasn’t to interview Mrs. Jackson. From what I just heard I guess there’s not much danger of my doing that, is there, Doctor?”
“Not for at least six hours,” said the doctor, withdrawing the needle and massaging the spot on his patient’s arm with a piece of cotton. He was a short, heavy-set man with gray hair and a strong jaw that was at the moment set determinedly. He glanced casually at Shayne with no show of recognition and began replacing things in his black physician’s bag.
“Will Mrs. Jackson be all right?” Shayne asked anxiously.
“With proper care and attention she should regain consciousness shortly after noon with no effects worse than a bad hangover,” he answered gravely. “But I absolutely forbid any attempt to waken her for questioning before she rouses from her condition normally.” He snapped his bag shut, turned to Morgan, and continued.
“I intend to hold you strictly accountable, Officer Morgan. Your full name and badge number, if you please.”
Morgan bristled, his face reddening. “See here, Doctor. As an officer of the law-”
“As an officer of the law it is your duty to see that the patient is not disturbed,” Doctor Meeker interrupted with quiet professional reserve. “Your name and number?”
“I can give you his name, Doctor,” Shayne interposed. “And I can get his badge without any trouble. But what about Mrs. Jackson? Shouldn’t she have a nurse to take care of her, stand by? Some of these hot-shot Homicide boys have conveniently short memories when it comes to a thing like this.”
“Decidedly,” snapped Doctor Meeker. “She must have a nurse with her. I’ll arrange to have one come on duty at once.”
Detective Morgan’s nostrils were flaring with each enraged breath. “That’s enough smart talk from you, Shamus. If you don’t get out and stay out, I’ve still got those handcuffs I didn’t use last night.”
“But you’ve only got one man to help you this time,” Shayne reminded him.
Doctor Meeker went quietly from the room. Shayne followed and went on outside when the doctor stopped at the telephone in the living-room, then nodded and said, “Thanks,” to Sergeant Allen as he went out the front door and down the walk.
He loitered on the sidewalk until Doctor Meeker came out, then moved beside him toward the gray coupe, asking in a low voice, “Is Mrs. Jackson really bad, Doc?”
“Just knocked out with an overdose of barbital,” said the doctor, keeping his eyes straight ahead, his short legs taking three steps to Shayne’s two long strides. “She was beginning to come around a few minutes before you arrived, but I gathered that you had some particular reason for hoping she would be unable to talk to the police for as long as possible. The sedative I administered will simply delay normal return to consciousness for a few hours.”
“Thanks, Doc,” Shayne murmured, not looking at his shorter companion.
They stopped beside the gray coupe. The doctor opened the door and thrust his medical bag onto the seat and got in under the steering-wheel.
“What actually happened to Mr. Jackson?” he asked, still avoiding looking at Shayne, and switching on the ignition, pressing the starter.
Shayne put both big hands on the open window sill as though purposely detaining the physician, and hastily told him the facts in a few words, then asked, “Do you think this was a suicide attempt, Doc?”
“I don’t know. I’ve known them ever since they were married, and have been watching their marriage go on the rocks. Months ago I advised her to see a psychiatrist. I just don’t know,” he repeated slowly. “Under certain conditions of shock she was capable of taking her own life. But I judge not in this case. I’m quite certain that she took no more than six tablets, and I’m sure she must know that that number is not likely to be fatal.”
“Why would she take six?” Shayne persisted. “Wouldn’t one or two put her to sleep?”
“Normally, yes. I’ve been prescribing them for her the past several months. Never more than half a dozen at the time. At first, one prescription lasted two to three weeks-”
“But couldn’t a person save them up?” Shayne broke in swiftly.
Doctor Meeker raced the idling engine as though anxious to get away, carefully avoiding looking at Shayne. “More than half the cases you read about are really accidental, Mike,” he said. “The effect of any drug taken regularly will gradually diminish, and a larger dosage is required. It’s perfectly normal for a person in a highly nervous state to feel that the prescribed dosage is inadequate, so they take one-maybe two more. The effect of even a moderate overdose often produces hallucinations, so they end up by taking the whole bottle without realizing it.”
Shayne was worrying his left ear lobe with thumb and forefinger, and a frown trenched his forehead. “About a nurse,” he said abruptly. “Have you got one you can trust?”
“I called the registry before I left. There’s not one available, but I think I could arrange for a practical nurse right away. Actually, the only necessity is to have someone who will see that she isn’t disturbed.”
“Look, Doc, suppose I get hold of one and send her over to take charge?”
Doctor Meeker nodded jerkily. “It would save me the bother, Mike. Just be certain she’s kept quiet and allowed to sleep off the effect of the hypodermic.” For the first time he turned toward Shayne. He asked, “Is our friend Tim Rourke mixed up in this?”
“More or less.” Shayne sighed, and after a moment’s thought he asked bluntly, “Was their marriage breaking up on account of Tim?”
“I’d rather you asked him that, Mike.” He raced the motor again, slid into low gear, and said, “Well, if there’s nothing more I can do-”
Shayne reached through the window to wring his hand and say heartily, “You’ve been swell, Doc,” then strode back toward Grandma Peabody’s house as the doctor drove away.
He was too late to keep his promise to report Betty Jackson’s condition. Sergeant Allen was standing just outside Mrs. Peabody’s living-room door with a notebook in his hand, and he could hear the old woman’s breathless words spanking the air, as vicious as the blazing sun’s rays which were unobscured by a single cloud in the sky and portending the scorching heat to come.
Turning back, Shayne got into his car and headed toward Biscayne Boulevard. He looked at his watch and was surprised to find that it was only a little after six. He remembered then that he hadn’t had a case for weeks and, therefore, hadn’t been awake at dawn for some time, and that the sun did rise surprisingly early in June.
Yawning widely, he felt the need of a few hours’ sleep more than anything else, but there was no time for that. Not now. Things were moving and were likely to move faster in the next few hours.
He drove slowly, slumped behind the wheel, morosely thinking that if it weren’t for Tim Rourke he’d wash his hands of the entire affair and go home to sleep all day. But Tim was in it up to his scrawny neck. Playing around with a married woman-and a brunette! That, he could not understand or forgive when Miami was so full of eager blondes.